


Overwhelming Love

by Angel-without-wings-sew (John_lockian)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M, More Fluff, Parentlock, christmas lights - i love tham as they are gaudy and shiny.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 02:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12831648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_lockian/pseuds/Angel-without-wings-sew
Summary: Who would have thought it.Domesticity, fluff and more fluff





	Overwhelming Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_hopeless_existentialist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_hopeless_existentialist/gifts), [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/gifts).



> This fic has been a while in the making. It is short... very short... but I struggled with it so much until Lockedinjohnlock took it under her wing, played with it a little and created something much better than the sum of its parts....  
> This was also originally given in its unfinished form to a beautiful writer, who deserves al the fluff in her life so I am re gifting it to her knowing Locky wont mind.
> 
> Lockedinjohnlock you are a lovely person. you deserve all the accolade you get for your tireless Pods, which you do not for the accolade of everyone else, not to be liked, but just to give pleasure. Your generosity astounds me.

Christmas Eve. The strains of ‘O Holy Night’ drifting through the window from the carollers on Baker Street ease into silence as Sherlock burrows further into his comfortable corner of the sofa, his body warm, muscles relaxed. Even the gaudy coloured lights strung across every vertical surface of the flat at John’s insistence fail to raise his ire.  
Sherlock looks down at the face resting against his arm. Oh goodness, those eyes; sharp and knowing, intelligent but gentle.  
Hair, so soft; the colour of the beach at sunset and slightly mussed.  
Nose. Turned up and twitching in half-sleep – adorable! And just below, those lips; the sweetness of an angel, pure and perfect. Sherlock smiles gently as little snores, almost kitten purrs, escape that perfect, expressive mouth, and sighs, blissfully happy, allowing the love for this perfect being to overwhelm his senses.  
Glancing away from the baby, Rosie, snuggled contentedly in his arms, he studies the other face, the face of the happily exhausted man who is sleeping with his head in Sherlock’s lap.  
His eyes are closed, long lashes brushing his cheek, fluttering gently in REM sleep, maybe dreaming of white Christmases and mince pies, prompted by the recent carol and the warm, glowing fire.  
His hair, greying now, is soft; a messy bedhead. Sherlock’s heart stutters as he remembers the aching love he experienced as he tugged gently at that hair in the throes of lovemaking not half an hour earlier.  
That nose. He loves that nose (not that he would ever tell John, of course) but no kiss would be complete without an extra touch of lips to that nose. And down to the lips. Ohhhh, those lips… warm and oh, so kissable. Irresistible. Sherlock allows himself a moment to consider the jolt of yearning it gives him each time John licks his lips - an automatic, compulsive habit but erotic, nonetheless.  
His skin, no longer smooth and weathered by the sun during tours in Afghanistan, is the skin of a man who has seen life, who has seen horror, sadness and fear but also love and laughter. Each line around his mouth, on his brow, at the corners of his eyes, tells a story.  
Sherlock looks down at these two faces, father and daughter. God, he loves them both so much. His family. His beautiful, beautiful family.


End file.
